Flight
by Feygan
Summary: Sequel to Fight. Scarecrow isn't pleased with Jonathan's interest in Nigma. So he does something about it, hurting everyone in the process. Slash: Nigma/Crane.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Flight

Author: Feygan

Fandom: Batman

Pairing: Nigma/Crane, slash

Main Characters: Edward Nigma, Jonathan Crane

.

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Jonathan tried not to think of Edward. Scarecrow didn't like it when he did it, and his loud grumblings had gradually bled out into random cruelty. The waspishness of his tempter made Jonathan want to cringe, it was a constant violent buzz in the back of his mind.

If Scarecrow came into contact with Edward, Jonathan feared for what would happen. He didn't want Edward to be hurt, much less killed by his alter-ego.

It would be hard having sex with a dead man, so he would have to do his best to keep Scarecrow distracted. The difficult part would be hiding what he was doing from Scarecrow, as Scarecrow would be infuriated if he thought Jonathan was trying to manipulate him.

Sometimes it was difficult being a costumed criminal with multiple personalities. Especially when his second personality was all aggression, rage, and an inability to let go of a grudge.

If it were up to Scarecrow, Edward would die screaming, his heart unable to withstand the concentrated effect of pain and fear. And once Edward died, Scarecrow would display the body where everyone could see what happened to those that touched Jonathan.

Part protective urge, part jealousy, all Scarecrow's need to be Jonathan's only one. There were time when Jonathan wanted to push Scarecrow far away, free himself from his oppressive presence, and live his life for himself. But Scarecrow was part of him, the strongest part.

Scarecrow was going to be with him forever. Which meant that all he could do was somehow get Scarecrow to at least tolerate Edward's presence in their shared life. But how was he ever going to manage that?

* . * . *

Edward winced when he bumped one of his bruises against the candy display. The cashier behind the mini-mart's cash register gave him a surprised look, her eyes taking in the mess the Batman had made of his face. Bruises on bruises, with eyes so swollen it was a wonder he could see.

Edward nudged the bottles of over the counter painkillers toward her as well as the overpriced bottle of chocolate milk. He didn't try a charming smile on her, knowing it would look ghastly on his current face.

"Are you all right? Do you need me to call anyone?" she asked.

"I am fine," he said, hating how garbled his words sounded. "I just need to get home to my ice pack."

"I'll say," the customer behind him spoke up. "You look like crap, man."

Edward shifted uncomfortably under the dual expressions of shocked pity. Narcissist he may be, but this kind of attention he'd never enjoyed. It felt too much like his personal power was being snatched away from him. He hated being perceived as weak.

"You should see the other guy," he said. "He's perfectly fine, but I do believe he bruised his fist a little on my face."

The cashier rung up his purchases, putting them in a paper bag. "I hope you filed a complaint with the police. It looks like whoever it was tried to _kill_ you. I can see finger-shaped marks on your neck."

Edward pictured trying to file an assault claim against the Batman. Everyone on the street knew the vigilante had the Commissioner's tacit protection, evidence against him disappearing without a trace. If Edward said anything, maybe he would disappear too, locked in a cell with no prisoner record and no release date.

He shuddered a little. "I'll be all right. I'm up and walking around and with some ice packs and rest I'll be good as new."

She gave him a doubtful look, but accepted the money he held out with one trembling hand. He nearly snatched the bag off the counter and hurried out of the store.

He ached all the way to his bones. More than anything he wanted the safety of his bed and the comfort of his painkillers.

He didn't know what he'd done to set the Batman off, but the "hero" had been particularly brutal with his treatment. The smack of fists on flesh counterpointed by the man's heavy breathing and somehow satisfied grunts of effort as he'd pounded Edward's face and chest. He hadn't even said anything before he'd begun his assault-he'd simply shoved Edward into an alley and begun hitting him.

And when it was all over, there'd been the sound of a grappling gun and the Batman was gone, leaving Edward sobbing helplessly amongst the garbage. It had taken him nearly twenty minutes to get himself together enough to find his feet.

He knew he was a mess of blood, snot, and tears. He'd caught glimpses of his reflection in the windows of cars he'd passed, and he'd flinched away from his own bruised face. But at least no bones seemed to be broken, so that was good.

Edward stumbled down the street, intent on reaching his safe place. He needed to go to ground, where he could lick his wounds in peace and maybe-probably-cry some more.

There was an impotent sense of injustice building in his chest. It was the same sense of "What did I do? Why are you hurting me Daddy?" that he remembered from childhood. And he hated it, how weak and small it made him feel.

_I hate you_, he thought toward the Batman. He hated him for the undeserved beating-he'd been heading to lunch, he hadn't even done anything!-and hated him for the way the beating made him feel, emotional pain inexorably mixed with the physical.

_I'm gonna make you sorry_. It was a promise he meant to keep.

Edward stumbled toward him.

* . * . *

"How are you, sir?" Alfred asked.

Bruce groaned and rubbed his face. His head pounded dully with pain. "What happened?"

"You were drugged, sir. Hopefully it's all been taken out of your system, but it made you hyper-aggressive and flooded your body with dangerous levels of testosterone. You nearly died," Alfred said. "Even just a little longer and your heart would have burst from the strain."

"Oh." Bruce had only vague memories of the last few days. He was afraid to remember more-_the dark satisfaction of punching yielding flesh. The pleasing sound of whimpering cries and a voice begging him to _stop, stop, please stop_, while arousal built heavy between his legs and_...-"Selena? Oh my God, what did I do? Alfred, what did I do?"

Alfred laid a restraining hand on his shoulder, keeping him on the bed. "Miss Selena knocked you unconscious after she realized you were acting unlike yourself. Master Dick brought you home."

Bruce sunk wearily onto the bed. He felt so tired, his body weak. "I didn't hurt her?" he asked, prodding at his jumbled memories. He could have sworn that there had been someone crying and pleading, body going pliant beneath him, submissive.

"She is fine, sir. Apparently you kissed her and were becoming quite amorous when she realized you weren't yourself." Alfred sounded amused, the gentle sting of mockery not aiming to hurt. "It is lucky she did not take advantage of your -out of control- state."

"Oh." Bruce still felt as if he were missing something, but his head hurt too much for him to concentrate. The memories were disconnected and hazy. He could already feel them fading away.

Alfred didn't seem concerned about anything he'd done, so his testosterone-addled brain must have created the sick delusion that plagued him-of punching yielding flesh, of weakness spread out before him, of knowing he could do whatever he wanted as the conqueror of weaker prey, submissive prey that wouldn't object to _anything_ he decided to do.

"Oh," he said again. What a terrible dream he'd had. "Thank goodness you were able to help me."

"It's all right, sir." Alfred smoothed a hand across Bruce's forehead, palm warm and dry. "Now that you're more yourself, I will get you something to eat. Stay in bed."

Bruce followed that gentle command even after Alfred left the room. He was tired and achy like after getting over the flu. But Alfred would take care of him and everything would be all right. Alfred always made things better.


	2. Chapter 2

Curled on his bed with an ice pack shoved against his face, Edward allowed himself to cry.

He'd looked at himself in the bathroom mirror as he used a washcloth to remove the worst of the blood and mess from his bruise-mottled skin. He looked like some grotesque monster, his face swollen and lumpy. There were finger-shapes pressed into the skin around his neck like spread butterfly wings, four fingers and a thumb on each side of his clavicle.

His chest and stomach were covered in fist marks, darker purple patches raised amongst the surrounding red and blue. The Batman had focused largely on his front, though there was a nasty pain in his right shoulder blade-it hurt to lift his arm.

He felt and looked terrible. The Batman had really done a number to him, and he'd been helpless to stop it.

Edward reached out and grabbed his favorite baby doll from the other side of the bed. He tucked it close against his chest and clamped his free arm tight around it, the feel of the squishy body relieving something tight in his chest.

With Baby against his arm, he felt as though someone loved him.

Even knowing it was illogical, hugging the doll made him feel safer. Neither the Batman or the rest of the world could get him as long as he was on his bed and Baby was with him. He could breathe and heal and no one would find him in the safety of his haven.

His face throbbed, the painkillers barely having taken the edge off. He'd used only the recommended dosage and wasn't willing to take any more. The last thing he needed was a late night trip to the emergency room to have his stomach pumped. The explanations alone would be too much for him to bear.

Edward hugged the doll and closed his aching eyes. Maybe if he slept he would wake up feeling better.

He didn't imagine that he could possibly feel worse.

.

He was wrong. Waking up was a nightmare of sore bruises intermixed with sharper aches and pains. The Batman had really done a number on him.

Little whimpers escaped his throat as he levered himself off the bed and hobbled to the bathroom. A shower might ease some of the pain if only he could make it in there. It seemed like a near impossible journey; ten feet that might as well have been ten miles. Part of him was tempted to go back to bed, except he didn't think he could manage turning around without falling.

Doggedly he put one foot in front of the other and went into the bathroom.

Then it was a few minutes of jaw-clenching pain as he took his clothes off and stepped into the shower. He breathed out a sigh of relief the moment hot water began pouring down over his body, loosening the tightness.

Small whimpering sounds escaped his throat as he soaped a washcloth and washed away the blood and dirt.

If he could have killed the Batman he would have done it. To take that nightmare and crush it into nothingness; he could imagine his aches and pains being soothed away by revenge. But he really didn't want to see what the Joker would do to Gotham if his favorite toy was destroyed by someone else.

There was a reason why the Batman was still alive and lurking around. The man may have believed it was his own skill or his reputation as the terror that flapped in the night, but what it really came down to was the Joker and how murderous he would be if his bat-shaped nemesis was ever permanently decommissioned.

Edward ducked his head under the water. A long rinse was the best he could manage when his arms refused to reach up high enough to grab the shampoo.

He couldn't even run his fingers through his hair, his shoulders hurting too much when he tried.

He stared at his feet as black grit and other debris swirled down the drain. He had vague memories of his head bouncing against various surfaces as he was slammed around limply.

_I'm lucky he didn't kill me_. It was a sobering thought, one he tried his best to ignore. He wasn't up to thinking of his own fragile mortality at the moment.

He closed his eyes and tried to enjoy the hot water. It wasn't going to last much more than half an hour and he was already dreading having to get out.

The thought of drying off with a towel seemed like an impossible task. He was already wincing away from the pain to come.

Edward slowly rotated under the water, letting it sluice over every bit of him. He was surprised by the myriad of bruises decorating his skin. He ignored how some of them were finger-shaped, only larger than human because they'd been made by armored gauntlets.

When the water started getting cold, he reluctantly turned it off. Then came the arduous task of drying himself with a towel and tugging on a pair of underwear.

He usually wore a matching set of pajamas, but underwear was all he could manage. So it was with a sense of being half-dressed that he stumbled to his bed and crawled beneath the covers.

It was near to impossible to find a comfortable position. No matter how he lay, some bruise was being pressed against the mattress. He was sure that even his hair was hurting.

"Ugh," he moaned, forcing his eyes closed.

If he was lucky he wouldn't feel any worse when he woke up. It was something to hope for.

.

Edward woke with the half-delirious sense that he was drowning. It hurt to draw in a full breath and there was a growing discomfort in his belly.

He bit back whines of pain as he rolled out of bed and hobbled to the bathroom. He switched on the smaller of the two lights before approaching the toilet.

It took a long time for the pee to start coming, and when it did he couldn't hold back a pained moan. Tears burned in his eyes as the urine sputtered before beginning to flow.

"Oh no." It didn't look like pee, being a dark and murky orangish-red. The last few dribbles looked like pure blood.

With shaking hands he carefully ran his fingers over his stomach. He winced at the soreness and noticed that there was tightness in the muscles and a just visible amount of swelling.

He didn't trust hospitals, but he needed a doctor. Someone that could come to him and see him in privacy.

Unfortunately he didn't have anyone he could call. His usual back alley physician had died a terrible death the month before, victim of a dissatisfied patient.

Edward barely made it back to the bed. He was losing his strength and his stomach was beginning to swell with trapped fluid.

He refused to die such an ignoble death.


	3. Chapter 3

An unexpected phone call at two in the morning. Very few people would try to reach Jonathan Crane without some warning, as there was a real possibility of getting a face full of the Scarecrow's fear toxin in retaliation for the rude wake up call.

But it was Jonathan fully in charge once he realized that the gasping voice belonged to Edward Nigma. He forced the Scarecrow down deep and listened in growing concern as Edward outlined his current predicament. How the man had gotten his phone number was not something he questioned-it was the Riddler after all.

"Tell me where you are," he ordered.

There was a worryingly long moment of silence. Then Edward rattled off an address followed by a "Hurry" before hanging up.

Ignoring Scarecrow's dark mutters about setups and betrayal, Jonathan dressed and gathered a few supplies.

It had been years since his medical rotation, but he'd had plenty of practice in recent years. Very few people wanted to give themself over to his care-afraid of what the legendary Master of Fear would do-but he'd handled his own wounds and those of his henchmen.

With his medical bag taking up the passenger seat, he drove to the semi-questionable neighborhood where Edward was holed up.

He wasn't impressed by what he saw, but considering some of his own bases of operation he chose to withhold opinion. Until he used the security code Edward had given him on the keypad and got inside. It was then that he decided the way Edward was living was sad.

Darkness was the first thing he saw. He fumbled his flashlight keychain out of his pocket and clicked it on. There still wasn't much to see, just stacks of cardboard boxes printed with the logo of a popular moving company. Jonathan restrained his natural curiosity-Edward could be dying while he dallied.

He wandered through the maze of boxes until he found the door to Edward's room. It took a second code to unlock it.

He drew in a deep breath before turning the knob and pushing the door open. Light flooded out. He tucked his keychain back in his pocket.

"Edward? It is I, Jonathan."

He paused at the threshold, caution telling him this was the perfect position to be shot in.

At least I won't see it coming, he thought, squinting against the light.

It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. And when they did, he let out a startled cry and ran toward the bed. "Oh good heavens. Are you all right?"

Jonathan tried to keep himself under control as he opened his medical bag and set to work. He kept up a low murmur of soothing dialogue, saying anything that came to mind. He couldn't let his hands shake as he sliced his scalpel through the taut and swollen skin.

Though he had not been prepared to perform surgery, he didn't allow himself to hesitate. Edward was depending on him.

"I will save your life," Jonathan said to Edward's unresponsive form. He could feel the life rushing warm around his gloved fingers as he sutured lacerated tissue and used a syringe to remove the excess blood filling Edward's abdomen.

He ignored his own sense of worry as he worked. Once Edward was awake Jonathan would find out what had happened to him.

* * *

There was pain. Edward knew that much. But whatever drugs Jonathan was pumping through his veins kept the pain a distant non-priority. It let him drift until his thoughts began to coalesce back together.

He opened his eyes and realized that he was coherent for the first time in who knew how long. For all he knew he could have been insensible for days if not weeks or months.

He gazed at where Jonathan stood in the doorway with his back to the room. He was talking into his phone, his voice low enough that Edward couldn't quite hear what he was saying. It was a murmur of sound, the rise and fall of a familiar cadence. It was soothing.

After listening to Jonathan speak for a while, it was a relief when he hung up the phone. He stayed in the doorway, his arms dropping to his sides. The phone hung from his right hand.

Edward had to clear his throat and his voice came out as a dull rasp, but his words were recognizable. "You came."

Jonathan whirled around, his expression lit with something that nearly made Edward flinch. His pulse beat loudly in his hears a few times before settling.

"Of course I came." Jonathan strode to the side of the bed. He tucked the cellphone in his trouser pocket and reached to take Edward's hand.

"Your hands are cold," Edward said. "You should take better care of yourself."

Jonathan laughed, though it sounded a bit like choking or tears that wouldn't come. "You're a fool. You nearly died."

"I knew you would save me," Edward said. He'd had hope at least. A mad need to believe that he was not going to die.

"What happened to you?" Jonathan leaned his hip against the side of the bed. He massaged his fingers into the meat of Edward's palm. "How were you attacked?"

Edward snorted a laugh that painfully choked off. He swallowed down a cough. "The Batman. He caught me unawares and seemed to be in quite a fury" was what he tried to say. But he couldn't be certain how clear his words sounded.

"Batman." Jonathan narrowed his eyes. "Hm."

"What will you do?" Edward asked. It sounded more like "_What wi' 'ou do?_" but Jonathan seemed to understand.

"Don't worry. You rest." Jonathan ran his free hand through Edward's hair, pushing it back from his forehead. "Back alley surgery isn't something you bounce back from so easily. Don't try to get up."

Edward might have objected-he was free to do as he pleased-but he realized that he was too tired to do much of anything.

He wanted to rest. It was his decision to close his eyes and relax under Jonathan's ministrations.

He drifted away with the knowledge that everything was going to be all right. Considering his current state of helplessness, he couldn't do anything else. He would allow himself to believe Jonathan would keep him safe.

_As long as the Batman doesn't find me_, he thought with an internal shudder.


End file.
